


An American and his Russian

by sirius_bucky_solo



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: BAMF!everyone, Dom/sub Undertones, Fake dating/relationship, Gaby isn't bad, I'll add as I go idek, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Abandoned, Slow Burn, WIP, bottom!Illya, but she's not super good either, dom!napoleon, sub!illya, top!napoleon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:34:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5972107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius_bucky_solo/pseuds/sirius_bucky_solo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick assessment reveals that she is carrying a gun, and possibly a knife. "Cowboy," Illya mutters, and the word comes out more harshly than he intends due to his slight panic. <br/>It is his fault, he knows, that this has happened. <br/>He doesn't know if she is from the KGB or an organisation that is a direct enemy to UNCLE, but he should have noticed that she was there long before now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Potrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/gifts), [AlchemyAlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemyAlice/gifts), [Morganaismyqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morganaismyqueen/gifts).



> Enjoy xx
> 
> Disclaimer: only the plot is mine.

Napoleon looks at the clock. At the man sitting in front of him. Back at the clock. He exhales resignedly, and exits the room. Turning back to the one way window, he pauses for a moment, staring at the figure hunching in on himself, head cradled in hands and body language defensive. Napoleon swears under his breath, and walks away.

 

_**Eight months earlier** _

"Peril, come out here, now! You've taken long enough, and we're meeting Gaby at noon!" Rolling his eyes, Napoleon sips at his scotch and looks expectantly towards the door joining the two hotel rooms, waiting for his Russian partner to emerge. It's less than one minute later that thundering steps increase in volume until Illya Kuryakin stands ready in front of him. "Well would you take a look at that? You clean up nice." He rakes his eyes unashamedly down the spy's body before humming in approval and gesturing towards the door, "after you. Please." Illya grumbles before moving in acquiescence out of the room, Napoleon smirking as he reaps the benefits of standing behind him, enjoying the tailored suit enough for the both of them.

  
"I can feel you staring, Cowboy. You're not as subtle as you think you are." Illya remarks, waves his hand and Napoleon winces, remembering his earlier jab from the events in Berlin, and how his Peril had been so hurt on the inside after his father's watch was stolen. Wait.... His Peril? When had the ex-KGB agent become his? How long did it take for his relationship with Illya to transcend the boundaries of professional and reserved, distant and impersonal, to become something more? Something intim - personal, friendly, when had he started to care about Illya Kuryakin?

 

This untimely realisation causes Napoleon to pause in his steps, lowering his face when his partner turns to see what is taking him so long. "Everything ok, Solo?" His face grows concerned and Illya takes a tentative step towards the American, hands twitching against his sides as though he wants to reach out. "I'm....fine, Peril," Napoleon replies distractedly and starts up again. He moves briskly past the Russian and trails his hand in a subconsciously gentle caress across his shoulder. "Nothing to be concerned about, other than why you've stopped!" The spy fights to sound nonchalant and airy, yet judging by the puzzled expression on the Illya's face, he hasn't quite succeeded.

Napoleon chuckles and walks ahead. He misses the other man's face changing, how the stoic Russian's features, who's usual micro expressions can only be deciphered by Gaby or his partner, turn vulnerable as he brings a hand up to where Napoleon touched him moments earlier.

*****

Gaby is waiting for them as they arrive at the hotel restaurant. Located in Madrid, Spain, it boasts a wide selection of foods from all over Europe, and Illya and Napoleon find themselves growing hungry at the mouthwatering display of delicacy placed on others' tables, the Russian scoffing at the capitalism even as he moves toward the table where Miss Teller waits for them. Solo follows close behind, and feels himself slip into his indifferent mask, polite, charming, yet carefully blank.  
Illya turns around to pull his partner's chair out for him, seemingly unaware of the scandalised stare he receives from the elderly woman sitting at the table next to them. He frowns at Napoleon's closed off expression, and the American's eyes soften, mouth turning up at the corners as he takes his seat. Illya sits down, comforted. "Miss Teller, hello. You look lovely, slept well, I trust?" His voice is insincere, obviously forced, and he curses himself inwardly as his hand tremors where it is curled into a fist under the table.

"Very well, thankyou Solo." Her voice barely shakes, and Illya wants to laugh, cry, scream at her, and break something. That she hasn't yet apologised for the events occurring at the Vinciguerra estate hasn't escaped either of the knowledge of either of the two, what with Illya not having said a word yet, just staring at Gaby with intensity. What his face shows in regard to her, he neither knows nor cares, and he revels in the uncontrolled gasp she lets out when their eyes meet. "And how did you sleep, Illya?" The use of his first name does not go unnoticed and fingers twitch, interrupting the pattern drumming against his thighs.

"Fine." His voice is emotionless and Napoleon winces at the giant elephant in the room. This needed to be handled. Who knew how long Waverley would require them to cooperate? Or, more importantly, how long Sanders would allow his best to be serving an agency other than the CIA? "Stop this," Gaby opens her mouth to speak but he ploughs on undeterred, "seriously, this needs to stop. Gaby, it's fine. It's ok. We're all alive, and we stopped Victoria. The world was saved, I made a new friend, and now we work together. Drop this, both of you." He finishes quietly but insistently, looking at them each in turn. A universal decision is reached.

"So," the dark haired man begins, breaking the silence only marginally less tense than before, "who's hungry?" He smiles at them brightly and it is as if the sun has emerged from behind a cloud, casting the table into a warm light. They are helpless to stop their returning grins, and though the atmosphere between them isn't the same, can never be the same, there's a chance now, and maybe, just maybe, things will get better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaby visits, and Illya pours Napoleon a drink.

Chapter Two

  
Yesterday's lunch with Gaby had been more than just a lunch between enemies turned friends. She had briefed them on their new mission on behalf of Waverley, who was busy in England. They were going to be heading towards Vancouver, Canada, for Intel extraction, out of a wealthy French businessman. There was more to the mission though, which Gaby had assured they would hear about the next day.

  
At promptly eleven o'clock, knocks sound against the door, alerting the two men playing chess in Kuryakin's room to their visitor. "Be a dear and get the door, would you, Peril?" Napoleon smirks lazily up at the Russian, who was only half concentrating on the board in front of him. The other half was preoccupied with the enigma lazing opposite. He nods in acquiesce, pausing only to take out the other man's queen with an overly dramatic flourish, basking in the distracted swearing that follows.

  
Illya stands back as Gaby pours into the room, all cheery smiles and fast words now that the issue between the three had been somewhat resolved. She tilts her head up expectantly at him, and he has to force himself to lift his mouth into some semblance of a smile. Illya doesn't truth her. Not any more. After what she did, he congratulates himself on being able to remain professional around her.

  
If such a thing had happened months ago, he would have destroyed her slowly and painfully, regardless of the fact that she was a woman. He would have made her suffer for hurting his pa- but no. This is not right. He hadn't had a partner before his mission with Solo, only himself to count on. No one to worry about saving, except himself. So, in truth, this couldn't have happened months ago, because there would have been no Solo for him to rescue. Illya doesn't know why this thought causes his chest to throb.

  
Said partner in discussion startles him out of his silent reverie with a gentle hand on his elbow, bringing him back to earth with soft eyes and a smile. "You with us, Peril?" Trying to appear unaffected, he shakes off Solo's hand and narrows his eyes playfully, "unfortunately, Cowboy, it would seem so." The American chuckles and steps back, taking a seat at the table where Gaby sits, a fan of images and an open file laid out before her.

  
"Colin Beau, aged 34." Napoleon reads aloud from the file, allowing the name to settle on his tongue before looking to Gaby to continue with the mission's specific details. "And we are stealing his files because...?" He trails off, waiting for her to fill in the gaps. "Stealing is such a harsh word, wouldn't you say?" She returns cheekily, eyes hopeful as she teases him. "Oh, absolutely. I myself prefer the term persuasive acquisition." Solo's eyes dance and the Russian cannot stop himself from staring, although he notices the same shallowness in the blue depths that is only present when the American handles his marks.

  
Perhaps all is not as resolved as Gaby seems to think it is.

  
Miss Teller laughs delightedly, though, and seems to miss Illya's and Napoleon's lack of reaction. "Wonderful, Solo. Truly. Anyway, we, being the two of you, are stealing his files because he apparently has in his possession the blueprints for every maximum security venue in America. This is a problem. Not only because of the sensitive nature of the plans, but because one of his more frequent clientele is rumoured to have connections to Nazi organisations, and this is something we cannot take a chance on." She levels a solemn gaze at them, before her eyes light up again.

  
"And...this is the best part, of course, but Waverley has assigned me to be your handler!" There is only a moment of silence before Napoleon beams at Gaby, gaze empty for those who know the signs.

Illya knows the signs. "Congratulations love! I guess Waverley thought that after running us in circles in Rome as a super secret double-cross, now you are properly qualified to run us in circles as an honest, working woman." His voice masks all but a hint of sarcasm, which Gaby misses.

  
"Oh you know it wasn't like that, Solo. You wouldn't be talking back to your handler now, would you?" She is giggling through her words, professional mood abandoned in favour of a discussion among colleagues. Perhaps she considered them friends, Illya thinks. Foolish girl. "Oh dear. You know I talk back to everyone, though, even Waverley... Surely you won't get me in trouble?"

Illya thinks of chairs, and electrodes, and he bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

  
"Illya? Is everything ok?" Gaby is looking at him now, eyes wide and searching. He can see every emotion on her face, clear and genuine, and the Russian wonders idly if his acting skills will be enough to get her to leave. "Of course, is - it is fine. You will be....good handler. Yes." Illya's accent is thicker, he concentrates on keeping his face neutral, and figures that Gaby will grasp what he is trying to say.

  
"Thanks, Illya! I just know it's going to be a success and I'm sure everything will go perfectly. I guess I'll leave you boys to it, then. We need to go over final details tomorrow morning, and then we will be flying out to Canada the next night." She waves at the two of them, before collecting the files and flouncing out of the room. The door shuts behind her. Napoleon exhales, running a hand through his hair and looking towards the door, unreadable expression on his pretty face.

  
"Peril, a drink, please." His voice is cajoling, open, unusually soft, and Illya, glad for something to do, unfolds elegantly from his chair and moves to the dresser. "Whiskey, I presume? Terrible habit, Cowboy, it is only just after one. What if you were on a case, or with only a corrupt KGB-agent for company?" At the American's grateful nod, he pours a measure and brings it over to him, pressing the glass into Napoleon's hand. Their fingers brush together.

  
Seconds pass and their eyes connect, gentle pressure between their hands comforting after the draining encounter with the German turned British spy. Neither of them know who pulls away first, but the unidentified tension fades away and Illya returns to his seat. It is silent, save for the breathing of the two.

  
"Lunch?" Napoleon has finished his drink and now tilts his head at the blond, "I'll cook...?" The sentence trails off into a question, waiting for Illya to respond. Said blond has only ever had his mother cook for him, and the thought takes him to memories of his family, all of them together, when everything was good and right.

  
Cooking for someone seems oddly intimate now.

  
Illya pushes this opinion deep inside of himself, and tries to make his face unreadable. The twitch of the other man's lips tells him this didn't quite work. "Or we could go out? To eat, I mean. It might be a bit soon for me to be taking such steps in our relationship, Peril, and I don't even know what you like to eat!" Napoleon's voice is crafted to sound teasing, reassuring in a unique way. The Russian knows this, and still he is comforted.

  
"Out is fine, Cowboy. This is...ok with you?" The dark haired man is wearing a slightly pained smile on his face, a smile that brightens at his partner's response.

"Perfect."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spanish food is eaten, and Illya is on Napoleon's lap.

Spanish food, Napoleon decides, is rather excellent. 

There is something exquisite about the way it lands unapologetic and brave on his tongue, and there is something exquisite about the person who sits across from him, blue icy ices meeting his gaze as if he's the sun causing the cold to thaw.

Exquisite.

That doesn't sound particularly friend like. It sounds, it sounds more like something lovers would say.

Hmm, the American thinks, this is unexpected. And probably not going to end well. Keeping his face carefully pleasant, he swallows his final mouthful of the best Spain has to offer, and drags his tongue across his lips, thinking nothing of the way Illya's eyes drop to his mouth.

"Mmmm that was pretty good, huh? Did you want to get dessert? I'm not bothered either way, so don't let that influence your decision." Napoleon tilts his head as he makes his offer, interested to see how the Russian would respond to the thought of such blatant capitalism.

"I think....mmmm - yes. Let's." Illya's expression is fairly closed off, but the CIA agent can see that there is something tentative in his eyes, suggesting his decision is not as final as his words imply.

"That sounds wonderful. Should we share one thing, or two? I suppose I was looking at the Flan or the tarta de manzana... What do you want, Peril?" And if Napoleon's eyes drop to the other man's lips as he poses the question, well, no one has to know.

They share the tarta de manzana and it is glorious.

 

*****

 

The two spies are leaving a sizeable tip with the rest of the bill, money resting under an empty wine glass, when Illya first notices their tail. It is a woman, dirty blonde curls tumbling out from under a red bandana and a multicoloured dress falling loosely to her knees. The style is longer than what would be considered fashionable at the moment, a fact that the Russian considers most unusual. 

A quick assessment reveals that she is carrying a gun, and possibly a knife. "Cowboy," Illya mutters, and the word comes out more harshly than he intends due to his slight panic. It is his fault, he knows, that this has happened. He doesn't know if she is from the KGB or an organisation that is a direct enemy to UNCLE, but he should have noticed that she was there long before now. 

It is very unlikely that she only just began trailing them, when he and Napoleon had been wandering the streets for maybe forty minutes before they stopped at a place the two could agree on. 

Illya cannot help but feel that he has failed, and although he knows that the two of them are most likely in very little danger, a harsh whisper in his head tells him insistently that he does not deserve to call himself a good spy, a good partner, a good friend. A good anything. 

The last time he heard that voice was when he was hanging above a minefield, watching a beautiful German girl and an equally beautiful American man escape him. His first failed mission since a year after he started working for the KGB.

After the events at the diner, where he so foolishly flipped a table at Solo's words, the cruel voice now sounded like the smooth American's. Illya hears it in his dreams. His dreams where he watches everyone he's ever cared for hurt and bleed and die, and just before they take their final breath they tell him the truth he's always known.

That it was all his fault.

If he had only been more observant, been a better spy, a better Russian, a better....a better friend, even, this would not have gone so far. He could have lost their tail and kept him and his American safe.

The overwhelming doubt and loathing Illya focuses inwards spirals quickly out of his control. His breathing turns fast and shallow, and his hands begin to shake. The Russian feels as though he's burning up from the inside, then freezing so cold he feels ice fire. 

 

*****

 

Before he knows what is happening, Illya finds himself on the ground, knees brushing his chest and head pressed into - into someone. 

It is Napoleon, he realises.

Napoleon who is cramped and sitting with him down an alley the American must have pulled him into. Napoleon who braces himself against the dirty wall in his expensive and stunning, probably bespoke, suit, with half the large Russian held firmly in his lap. Napoleon, who is pressing Illya's face into the crook between the American's face and shoulder, who is murmuring to him softly, words that he cannot make out beyond their gentle, soothing sound.

Napoleon, who Illya breathes in. 

He smells familiar, cologne that no doubt cost something ridiculous, mixed with something that means Napoleon. He smells so good, and Illya wants to drown in it and breathe it in until he dies.

His arms, wrapped around the blond, are tight and unrelenting but not so constricting that he feels suffocated or trapped. They are strong, Illya discovers, deceptively so. On the surface, it is easy to see that he has an aesthetically pleasing physique but it is when he is so close to the American he feels the strong muscles under smooth, tan skin.

Subconsciously, his breath begins to slow and his temperature becomes less erratic. The Russian can make out what his partner is saying, "I'm here, breathe with me, it's ok, I've got you, you're safe," a litany of repeated phrases, comforting and soft in a way that Illya has never heard before. 

The ex-KGB can hear Napoleon's heartbeat, can feel it beneath his fingertips as he uses it to try and anchor himself to the moment, to the here and now. It is steady and constant, and the warmth of the American's skin infuses his own with grounding reassurance.

"Hey, you back with me Peril?" The question is quiet and demands nothing from Illya, and he feels such immense gratitude for the American that his breath staggers against Napoleon's neck. He is unable to clamp down on the whimper before it escapes his open mouth. Perhaps his partner really does care about his Russian Red Peril, even if it's only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahayes! This is where I leave you, lovelies...   
> Sorry it's been a while, but please don't forget to comment and kudos   
> Hope you liked the chapter x


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